


of binary stars

by SouthernBird



Series: Shance Fluff Week 2017 [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Galra Shiro (Voltron), Happy Ending, Implications of War, Implications of violence, Love, M/M, Marriage, Sequel, Shance Fluff Week 2017, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: [Sequel to 'Of Juniberries and Noon Lilies']--The Galra raises his own hand then, his own ring set with a pitch black stone to juxtapose the brightness of Lance’s blues, a reminder to revel in the darkness so that his little starlight can shine and shine for eons on end. A hardship that is hardly so, one that he accepted so readily the moment he kneeled before his father for the allowance to ask for Lance’s hand in the greatest of hopes to end conflicts desolate.--For Shance Fluff Week 2017 | Day One - Black/Blue





	of binary stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel piece from Shance Week 2016 that was inspired by my friend Andie's art (who has sadly deleted her Twitter so I cannot properly linked.) 
> 
> Please read [Of Juniberries and Noon Lilies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8620927) first if you haven't already! Please enjoy and happy Shance Fluff Week!

“ _… Do you really want to marry me?_ ”

Like an ocean tide ebbing from the shore, Shiron is drawn from his most secret thoughts, though still somewhat clouded with the reality that the day will come that he will lose his father. It’s a loaded question, a significant query to push through the muddle, to discover if, genuinely, the first time Shiron saw Lance from the scope of his rifle, the Galran imagined bouquets of flowers and a white veil instead of assassination.

Chuckling warmly, the sound vibrating in his throat, Shiron returns a question with his own, “will the moons rise in the Altean sky?”

 _“Of course they would, fluffy dumbass._ ”

—

Prince Shiron, who will one day succeed his father for one of the half thrones of a strong and thriving alliance between the Altean and Galra Empires, is a creature that tends to need his solitude for brief times despite how jovial his heart feels. 

From his perch on the balcony of his semi-permanent home away from his true dwellings, the lights of the Altean capital glimmer along the white trails and ivory buildings like a pearl that his mate has kept in the locket of his necklace since his mother passed prematurely so long ago. That very locket, a keepsake that Shiron knows is always kept close in the attempt to keep one last memento of his mother near his breast, lays on the vanity that leads to the baths where his mate and spouse bathes away the day. 

 

Bringing his slime pipe to his lips, he inhales— then exhales, the smoke swirls looming towards the two moons that dance horribly slow yet adoring in the blackness above. His eyes observe them, but cannot trace their journey due to their sluggish pace; he returns his sight to the lights below and takes it all in once more. 

 

It is quiet; even for the capital this night, it is undoubtedly silent, the festivities of the juniberry galas having worn out the citizens to the point of exhaustion that not even the more lucrative of businesses are open. However, the banners gilded in gold and plums still hang from the sign posts and the columns, the fluttering veils the only evidence that there had been any celebration at all. 

 

If he were to be honest with a wilder sense of himself, he would admit that he is exceptionally tired, feeling the ache of weariness cling to the marrow of his bones in a lullaby to tempt him to bed. Despite the sleep that droops his eyes, the vines of his blood throbs with a craving for something more carnal tonight other than sleep, hopeful that his Prince of Altea, the sole reason for his bravery to end a war between two Empires that once were allies and have come full circle, is resting up in his bath of salts and petals in anticipation of finally having a moment of peace between them. 

 

To think that there is no longer war dividing them, to think that there is a union of people that have overcome their differences so that star crossed lovers may never know the loneliness of never being with their fated, so that they may never know the utter heartbreak of never having what truly brings the happiness of the soul. 

 

Another inhale of the smoldering leaves of his pipe— smoke drifts from his parted lips, then there are fingertips along the fur of his shoulder. 

 

"Your father must have sent a lighter blend this time; I didn't smell your smoke all the way across the room," is a soft murmur that dances along the gentle breeze of moon beams; his mated has come from his bath, scented with heavenly florals and sweet fruits, smells that once were the bane of Shiron's existence before meeting blue eyes across a battlefield. 

 

Blues that should never know atrocities of death, should never know the scars of a bullet or the lacerations of a knife, should never know how cruel a person can be when there is nothing more to lose, how cruel his own lover could be when the blood boils and there’s nothing but _red._  

 

By the Gods, Shiron was fortunate that he was able to save Lance from the majority of burdens that accompany the drums of war. Most, but not all, and that is his truest regret, the one niche that cannot be filled by the love that they have and the love that they make, a cesspool of guilt because Lance knows the loss of a mother, knows the death of his friends and his people—.

 

“Cat ears, you’re drifting again,” is a melodic sweetness that draws Shiron back to the reality that is so subliminal, sinks him back down to the balcony with a gravity of affection that can only ever be found in Lance’s arms, “but you do that a lot, don’t you?”

 

A chuckle rumbles in the deepest part of his throat, a smile following close behind; to think how many moons ago that Shiron believed that Alteans were the foulest of creatures that have ever walked the cosmos, yet the one is his arms, the one that he draws close to press their foreheads together as his ears lay back in the comfort that surrounds him, was born from auroras and from sea tides, an ethereal existence that has changed a blood-stained heart of a warrior Prince. 

 

“Shiron,” Lance murmurs, a pout along his bottom lip while his hand, the one adorned with a ring set in the bluest of crystals, cups his jaw, “come back to me.” 

 

He does— it is a mere command that is so wholly followed for Shiron is an obedient soldier and even more an obedient husband, a purr accompanying his nuzzle into the soft palm to press kisses into the warm skin. “I am here,” and he is, so much so, so much that if he were any where else and he heard the words upon the winds, he would rush to the end of galaxies to be with this Prince. 

 

Lance’s laughter is the chime of the bells on their wedding day, and it’s a sound that makes him fall in love all over again,“I would be worried if you weren’t, truly.”

 

The Galra raises his own hand then, his own ring set with a pitch black stone to juxtapose the brightness of Lance’s blues, a reminder to revel in the darkness so that his little starlight can shine and shine for eons on end. A hardship that is hardly so, one that he accepted so readily the moment he kneeled before his father for the allowance to ask for Lance’s hand in the greatest of hopes to end conflicts desolate. 

 

His thumb caresses along the palm, earning a tiny giggle, and oh, that sound is a song unto itself, a harmony that drives his senses into the breezes that sway their fields of flowers into bending into the brush of a zephyr hand. Lance can take him away and still bring him home, bring him into his arms to settle wayward thoughts while still journeying so far and wide, as he will go anywhere Lance wants, be wherever Lance desires.

 

And if that desire brings him to stay by his side for eternities unseen, then Shiron will follow like the blackness that follows the waning suns to collide into the blue of the skies.

 

“No worries, not anymore,” and he brushes his lips along the crown of brunette, feels a heat begin to smolder at the scents that are overtaking him, that are renewing a sense of longing for their marriage bed. So, as any hot-blooded Galra would do, he bends to carry his mate to the bed, soft and luxurious and _theirs._

 

Laughter, Gods, he hears the sweetness in his ear once more, feels the press of lips along the base of his jaw in a bit of an enamored fit, but it’s too adorable to be any more pressing than simply an act of adoration that flutters heartstrings.

 

“How can I worry when you do all the worrying for me? I have had naught to worry over since you married me…” Lance tells him in a tone that brims with happiness and teasing to trail off into something softer, more like a tender touch of a lover than words spoken into the air between them, more like the gentle placement of the bed to Lance’s back while Shiron moves over him, threading their fingers together. 

 

Their rings, precious metals set with exquisite gems, clink minutely between their interlaced fingers, yet another moment that reminds them, the two of them, that they are bonded in every way imaginable, sewn together with the dust of binary stars that melded into their souls to create lovers that are as fierce as star fire and as adoring as the petals along stream beds. 

 

Shiron ponders, for a tick, how can a man live and never be this happy? How could a man exist such as he, who only knew of baring fangs and proud red badges, ever not want to comprehend how the heat of the glow feels whenever he sees the love of his life?

 

Blues and blacks, it’s all lights and darks, just mixes of how the lights of the suns and the moons hit the air just right, creates a dazzling sight that rivals a cluster of stars that could be plucked from the sky and offered as gifts, and yet, they would all fade at the sight of the Galra’s Altean mate.  

 

“May I make love to you, darling?” he mutters because he is moved, so moved into an idea that the interstellar mediums between them, the dusts of long gone celestials that can no longer be found on the star charts of old, must vanish so that they can no longer know the separation of flesh, but be as one. 

 

Again, there is a laugh that just makes the little markings befitting Altean royalty glow, makes them shine like the moon itself was bathing Lance with her light, and maybe she is through Shiron, as he knows he is the moon and Lance the sun, two constants that must always orbit together, to never know anything other. 

 

Then, just as there was the brightness that glistens in those azure eyes that ensnare the hearts of young Galra Princes, there is something warmer, something older, something that speaks an ageless answer that will always be the same. 

 

Lance, though, lets his confirmation into the spaces that will soon be lost, will soon be filled with two lovers that become one flesh instead of remaining just black and just blue.


End file.
